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"President of the United States," said Kefauver.
"Hey, Ma!" yelled the counterman. "Here's a guy says he's running for President—and he ain't kidding."
The Great Rebellion. Estes Kefauver's sensational success in New Hampshire was the first proof of a theory that has tantalized political experts for the last six months. The theory: after a long siege of public investigations, scandals and exposes of corruption, the U.S. voter is in rebellion against the professional politician. If the voter can avoid it, he doesn't want to argue about the complexities of government or foreign policy. Kefauver was something simple, evident, and evidently nonprofessional, and that was what New Hampshire's Democrats wanted. The campaign registered an image in their minds: 1) Estes Kefauver, the firm, fearless crimebuster of last year's televised hearings; 2) Kefauver of the coonskin cap, who had come out of the Tennessee hills after defeating a political boss in his home state in his campaign for the Senate; and 3) Kefauver, the declared opponent of that greatest politician of them all, Harry Truman.
New Hampshire's Democrats didn't want to know much more. And if, between handshakes, Kefauver uttered blank nothings on foreign policy or left gaping holes in his political platform, the New Hampshire voter seemed quite willing to fill in the blanks himself. Through no particular design, Estes Kefauver was, in fact, a kind of Senator Legend—half man, half fiction, a candidate conjured up by the disillusioned New Hampshire Democrat to answer his own yearnings.
The Non-Professional. For such a role, Estes Kefauver is superbly equipped. At 48, he is a tall (6 ft. 3 in.) oak of a man with a durable constitution and strong, homely features—a long nose, horn-rimmed spectacles over blue eyes, thin lips that break easily into a wide grin, and grey-streaked brown hair. When he bends low to talk, his serious, attentive manner and his gentle, soft half-drawl are a guarantee of his sincerity and personal dedication. "You just know he's honest," sighed a New Hampshire housewife after Kefauver had passed her way.
In Congress he has few friends or even admirers. He is rated one of the dullest, most fumbling speakers in the Senate. At Washington cocktail parties, his "I am Estes Kefauver" routine is by now old hat. Washington's lion-hunters regard his "Let's talk about you" approach as a confession of mental bankruptcy. But on the hustings all these liabilities are to his credit. He may slop around with untied shoelaces, but he has a Jim Farley-like memory for names, and follows up every contact with a personal letter from Washington. His scuffed oratory is proof, at least, of unprofessionalism. His willingness to listen is a rare boon.